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The Sailing 

of King Olaf 

AND OTHER POEMS 



By ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON 




CHICAGO 
CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 

1887 



3 






Copyright, 1887, 
By Charlks H Kerr & Co. 



All rights reserved. 



$ 



MY MOTHER 

TO WHOSE INSPIRATION AND TRAINING ALL THAT IS BEST 

IN THESE PAGES IS DUE ; THIS BOOK IS 

LOVINGLY INSCRIBED 



What is your art, O poet P 
Only to catch and to hold 
In a poor, frail ivord-mould 

A little of life; 
That the soul to whom you show it 
May say : " With truth it is rife, 
This poem — / lived it of old" 

Ah, the light wherein ive read 
Must be the light of the past, 
Or your poem is nothing at best 

But an empty rhyme. 
And to su7nmon back grief what need 
Of word of yours P — through all time 
It abides with us to the last. 

Sing to us of joy, then. Borrow 

Of life its happiest hours. 

Sing of love and hope, of flowers, 

Of laughter and smiles; 
But not too oft of sorrow ! — 
The song that our grief beguiles 
Is the best, in this world of ours. 

(5) 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Prelude, 5 

The Sailing of King Olaf, i l 

Passing, . . • • 

Unawares, 2 ° 

Wake-Robin, 2I 

November, 22 

The Ragged Regiment, 2 3 

The Frost Myth, 2 4 

Apples of Sodom, 2 " 

A Study from the Ring, 2 9 

The Cardinal's Saraband, 3 1 

Dorothy Vernon's Flight, 35 

Malison, 3^ 

The Wife of Pygmalion, ...... 4° 

The Saga of the Quern-Stones, 4 2 

Moly, 47 

Holy Poverty, 4 8 

Quatrains — 

The Maxim of Apollonius, .... 49 

Now, 49 

The Falling Star, ... ... 49 

On Reading , 5° 

A Woman's Choice, ..... 5° 

A Child's Answer, 5° 

Largess, 5° 

A Narrow Life, 5 1 

(7) 



8 Contents 

Page 
The Unwritten Message, . . . .51 

From Schiller, 51 

Of Tireless Patience, 51 

September, 52 

Where's the Baby, . . . . . . -53 

The Singer, 55 

Under the Beeches, 57 

Midwinter, 58 

Cricket, 59 

The Snowdrop, . 60 

Westward Ho! 62 

CARMINA VOTIVA 

Take Heart of Grace, 69 

A Poet's Gift, 70 

Woman and Artist, 71 

A Singer's Birthday, 72 

Desert-Bound, 74 

Across the Sea, 76 

The Two Paths, 77 

The Dandelion, 79 

Rhymer's Reason, 80 

ROSE SONGS, ETC. 

Prelude, 85 

Rosenlied, I, 87 

Rosenlied, II., . 8S 

The Dying Rose to the Nightingale, ... 89 

The Page Sings, ....... 90 

Wooing, 92 



Contents 9 

Page 

Campion, 

A Song of Fleeting Love, 95 

The Poison Flask, 9 6 

June Roses, IO ° 

The Spinner, io2 

Plighted, A. D. 1874, io 4 

Sic Semfer, . io 7 

THE INNER LIFE 

The Sin of Omission, IX 3 

In the King's Name, ]1 5 

The Wandering in the Wilderness, . . . • XI 7 

The Holy Communion, 12 ° 

The Three ibid Testimony, I22 

After Long Waiting, I2 3 

The Spirit of Truth, I2 4 

Magdalen, I26 

Tired, . I28 

Daily Bread, J 3° 

Told in a Parable, J 3 2 

God Knows, I 3 8 

A Song of Rest, ....... x 4° 

Harvest Home. J 43 



THE SAILING OF KING OLAF 



THE SAILING OF KING OLAF 

" Norroway hills are grand to see, 
Norroway vales are broad and fair; 
Any monarch on earth might be 

Contented to find his kingdom there." 
So spake Harald Haardrade bold, 
To Olaf his brother with beard red-gold. 

" A bargain!" cried Olaf, "Beside the strand 
Our ships rock idle. Come, sail away! 
Who first shall win to our native land 
He shall be king of old Norroway." 

Quoth Harald the Stern, "My vessel for thine, 
I will not trust to this lagrgfard of mine." 



■&;=>' 



Take thou my Dragon with silken sails," 

Said Olaf, " The Ox shall be mine in place. 
If it pleases our Lord to send me gales, 
In either vessel I'll win the race. 

With this exchange art satisfied ?" 
" Ay, brother! " the crafty one replied. 
(13) 



14 The Sailing of King Olaf 

King Olaf strode to the church to pray 
For blessing of God on crew and ship; 

But Harald, the traitor, made haste to weigh 
His anchor, and out of the harbor slip. 
« Pray ! " laughed Harald Haardrade, "Pray ! " 
The wind's in my favor. Set sail ! Away !" 

As Olaf knelt by the chancel rail, 

Down the broad aisle came one in haste, 

With panting bosom and cheek all pale; 
Straight to King Olaf 's side he paced : 
" Oh, waste no time in praying," cried he, 
" For Harald already is far at sea!" 

But Olaf answered : "Let sail who will, 

Without God's blessing I shall not go." 
Beside the altar he tarried still, 

While the good priest chanted soft and slow; 

And Olaf prayed the Lord in his heart: 
" I shall win yet if Thou take my part! " 

Cheerily then he leaped on board; 
High on the prow he took his stand, 
" Forward," he bade, " in the name of the Lord !" 
Held the white horn of the Ox in his hand: 
" Now Ox ! good Ox ! I. pray thee speed 
As if to pasture in clover-mead ! " 



The Sailing of King Olaf 15 

The huge Ox rolled from side to side, 
And merrily out of the harbor sped. 
" Dost see the Dragon? " King Olaf cried 
To one who clung to the high mast-head, 
" Not so! " the watcher swift answer gave, 
" There is never a boat upon the wave." 

Onward then for a league and twain, 

Right in the teeth of the wind they flew : 
" Seest aught of the Dragon upon the main ? " 
" Something to landward sure I view ! 
Far ahead I can just behold 
Silken sails with a border of gold." 

" The third time Olaf called with a frown. 
"Dost see my Dragon yet? Ho! Say!" 
Out of the mast-head the cry came down: 
" Nigh to the shores of Norroway 

The good ship Dragon rides full sail, 
Driving ahead before the gale ! " 

" Ho! to the haven! " King Olaf cried, 

And smote the eye of the Ox with his hand. 
It leaped so madly along the tide 

That never a sailor on deck could stand; 
But Olaf lashed them firm and fast 
With trusty cords to the strong pine mast. 



1 6 The Sailing of King Olaf 

" Now who," the helmsman said, "will guide 

The vessel upon this tossing sea? " 
" That will I do! " King Olaf cried; 

" And no man's life shall be lost through me." 
Like a living coal his dark eye glowed, 
As swift to the helmsman's place he strode. 

Looking neither to left nor right, 
Toward the land he sailed right in, 

Steering straight as a line of light: 

" So must I run if I would win; 

Faith is stronger than hills or rocks, 
Over the land speed on, good Ox!" 

Into the valleys the waters rolled; 

Hillocks and meadows disappeared. 
Grasping the helm in his iron hold 

On, right onward, St. Olaf steered; 
High and higher the blue waves rose. 

'■ On! " he shouted, " No time to lose! " 

Out came running the elves in a throng, 
Out from cavern and rock they came: 
" Now, who is this comes sailing along 

Over our homes? Ho! tell us thy name?" 
" I am St. Olaf, my little men, 
Turn into stones till I come again.' 



The Sailing of King Olaf 17 

The elf-stones rolled down the mountain-side; 
The sturdy Ox sailed over them all. 
" 111 luck be with thee! " a carline cried, 

" Thy ship has shattered my chamber wall! " 
In Olafs eyes flashed a fiery glint: 
" Be turned forever to rock of flint ! " 

Never was sailing like this before: 
He shot an arrow along the wind ; 

Or ever it lighted the ship sailed o'er 
The mark: the arrow fell far behind. 
" Faster, faster! " cried Olaf, " Skip 
Fleet as Skidbladnir, the magic ship ! " 

Swifter and swifter across the foam 

The quivering Ox leaped over the track, 
Till Olaf came to his boyhood's home; 
Then fast as it rose the tide fell back. 

And Olaf was king of the whole Norse land 
When Harald the third day reached the 
strand. 

Such was the sailing of Olaf the king, 
Monarch and Saint of Norroway; 

In view of whose wondrous prospering 
The Norse have a saying unto this day: 
" As Harald Haardrade found to his cost, 
Time spent in fraying is never lost /" 



PASSING 

" What ship is this comes sailing 
Across the harbor bar, 
So strange yet half familiar, 

With treasure from afar? 
O comrades shout, good bells ring out, 

Peal loud your merry din ! 

O joy! At last across the bay 

My ship comes sailing in." 

Men said, in low whispers, 

" It is the passing bell. 
At last his toil is ended." 

They prayed, " God rest him well." 

" Ho Captain, my Captain, 

What store have you on board ? " 
" A treasure far richer 

Than gems or golden hoard. — 
The broken promise welded firm, 

The long forgotten kiss, 
The love more worth than all on earth, 
All joys life seemed to miss!" 
The watchers sighed softly ; 

" It is the death-change ! 
What vision blest has given 

That rapture deep and strange ? " 
(18) 



Passing 19 

"O Captain, dear Captain, 
What are the forms I see 
On deck there beside yon ? 

They smile and beckon me; 
And soft voices call me, 

Those voices sure I know!" 
" All friends are here that you held dear 
In the sweet long ago." 

" The death smile," they murmured, 
" It is so passing sweet, 
We scarce have heart to hide it 
Beneath the winding-sheet." 

" O Captain, I know you! 

Are you not Christ the Lord? 
With light heart and joyous 

I hasten now on board. 
Set sail, set sail, before the gale, 

Our trip will soon be o'er; 
To-night we'll cast our anchor fast 
Beside the heavenly shore!" 

Men sighed : " Lay him gently 

Beneath the heavy sod." 

The soul afar beyond the bar 

Went sailing on to God." 



UNAWARES 

A song welled up in the singer's heart, 
(Like a song in the throat of a bird,) 

And loud he sang, and far it rang, — 
For his heart was strangely stirred; 

And he sang for the very joy of song, 
With no thought of one who heard. 

Within the listener's wayward soul 

A heavenly patience grew. 
He fared on his way with a benison 

On the singer, who never knew 
How the careless song of an idle hour 

Had shaped a life anew. 
(20) 



WAKE-ROBIN 

[rondel] 

Wake-robin's peeping from the mould, 

" Hey, Robin, Robin, wake! 

Vanished is the white snow-flake, 
Loosed is winter's icy hold ; 
Spring is coming o'er the wold, 

Be merry for her sake! 
Wake-robin <s peeping from the mould, 

" Hey Robin, Robin, wake! " 

Daffodil in gown o' gold 

Hastes the tender sod to break, 

Dandelions a carpet make 
Under her dancing feet unrolled; 
Wake-robin's peeping from the mould. 

Hey, Robin! Robin, wake! 
(21) 



NOVEMBER 

[rondel] 
Is this the world that was so young 

And fresh and fair but yesterday? 

To his fond mate a roundelay 
From leafy boughs the robin sung, 
Wild bees upon the clover swung, 

And grove and field with bloom were gay. 
Is this the world that was so young 

And fresh and fair but yesterday? 

Sere leaves beneath our feet are flung, 
Bare boughs against a sky of grey, 
Hither and thither, sobbing, sway, 

As if wild hands a spectre wrung. 

Is this the world that was so young 
And fresh and fair but yesterday ? 
(22) 



THE RAGGED REGIMENT 

I love the ragged veterans of June, 

Not your trim troop drill-marshalled for display 
In gardens fine, — but such as dare the noon 

With saucy faces by the public way. 

Moth-mullein, with its moth-wing petals white, 
Round Dandelion, and flaunting Bouncing-Bet, 

The golden Butter-and-Eggs, and Ox-eye bright, 
Wild Parsley, and tall Milkweed bee-beset. 

Ha, sturdy tramps of Nature, mustered out 
From garden service, scorned and set apart,— 

There's not one member of your ragged rout 
But wakes a warmth of welcome in my heart. 
(23) 



THE FROST MYTH 

Out of Frost and Fire sprang Ymir, 

Type of Chaos, long ago; 
Mighty Odin slew the giant, 

As the Norsemen know. 

From the rushing blood the ocean 
In swift thunderous torrents whirled; 

From the ponderous carcass Odin 
Carved the Mitgard world, — 

Of his hair made waving forests, 
Of his skull the vaulted sky, 

Moulded from his bones the mountains 
Which around us lie. 

Lo, to-day, upon my window 

Odin carves on every pane, 
(To rebuke my skeptic smiling), 

A new world again, 

Mountain, forest, plain and river, 
Flash upon my raptured sight; 

Here is Summer's perfect joyance, 
And Spring's dear delight. 
(24) 



The Frost Myth 25 

Ferny cliff, cascade and grotto, 

Glitter on the frosty pane — 
Miracle the Norsemen chanted 

Here is wrought again. 

Who shall say the gods have left us, 

Or that Odin's power is lost, 
When new Mitgards rise before us 

Out of Fire and Frost? 



APPLES OF SODOM 

The golden apples dance on the bough, 

Yellow and mellow; a rosy flush 
On the side o' the sun, betraying how 

The pulp within is ripened and lush 
With the juice of a summer's garnering. Fair 

To the eyes they hang, as the fabled fruit 
Of the tree in the famed Hesperides, where 

A dragon coils at the root. 

No dragon here, with its beryl eyes 

And tongue of flame ! It is but to pass 
A step or two from the path which lies 

So bleak, and tread o'er the yielding grass, 
Crushing the buds as one goes; to clutch 

Yon bough, an easy reach as you stand, 
And straight, with never a tug or a touch 

The fruit lies there in the hand. 

Sin ? But the trespass is so slight — 
So small, indeed, I could almost hold 

It not to be. Just mark how the light 

Touches that topmost cluster with gold, — 
(26) 



Apples of Sodom 2 7 

Feast for a god ! to set the teeth 

In the mottled skin, and to crush through where 
The luscious pulpiness melts beneath — 

Hist ! Did a voice cry " Beware " ? 

Bah! what folly, to gaze and long, 

With lips that water and wistful eyes. 
Coward! to linger and prate of wrong. 

Forward a stride and you reach the prize. 
So ! And the fruit for which you pined 

Lies in the hand, and bite you must. 
The teeth tear into the rind — to find 

The core but ashes and dust! 

Fool ! to be fooled by the fair outside. 

Curse, if you will: it is all too late — 
Fit reward of folly and pride. 

This is the end of it all, then. Wait. 
Turn it over. The nether half 

Was flecked and specked with splotches of rot. 
Ah, now that lurking fiend's harsh laugh 

Is hard to bear; is it not? 

Hard ; but it galls not half so sore 

As your own contempt. You have had your 
will, 



28 Apples of Sodom 

Taken your fate in your hand as you swore. 

Of the fruit forbidden now eat your fill, 
For none will hinder you. Ah, you see 

Clearer now than before your fall 
That sin is sin, and must ever be, 

Though it were never so small. 

Go! you have learned your lesson, and so 

Back to the path, with the ash on your lip. 
Something of wile and of guile you know, 

To guard your feet lest again they slip. 
Beautiful gilded deceit! Ay, such 

You'll find, in its every guise, is sin ; 
Fair to the eye and warm to the touch, 

But ashes and dust within. 



A STUDY FROM THE RING 

Tinsel and glare, 
Brazen speech, and bolder stare 
From bleary eyes. — 

Bah, what do I care? 
Give me the rush, and the music's crash, 
The roar as into the ring I dash — 

Houp la! 

Just last night, out there in the ring, 
They played a tune that I used to sing 

Out on the farm, 
An' I saw— my father, with locks of grey 
And folded hands, as he used to pray 
" Keep us from harm ! " — 
Saw him as plain as you see me. 

Sort o' shaky ?— Queer ? D. T. ? 

Mebbe so, who cares? Ha, you see, 

A <rood while now I've been going the pace 

It must be near the end of the race. 

But— Houp la! Here we are again! 

Stand back, men, 

Now for a run — 
Ha, that "mount" was pretty well done. 
(29) 



go A Study from the Ring 

Some day — a shriek, a sudden pause, 

A huddled heap of silk and gauze, 

A limp, crushed form borne out o' the ring 

That the bearers glance from shuddering; 

While: "Just a slight accident — as you saw. 

Now, Mr. Merry man, next!" 

"Hurrah!" 
A short life now and a merry one, 
And the potter's field to bury one. 

Houfi la ! 

Hark there! Hear'em whistle and call? 
(What \i— to-night— I should fall!) 
Gi' me the rein, Jake. Stand aside. 

(That tune, my God— to-night?) 
Steady now. Fling the curtains wide. 

All r-right! 
Room there — Room for the Queen of the Ring 
In her Grand Aerial Flying Spring — 

Houf la! 



THE CARDINAL'S SARABAND 

Temp, louis xiii. 

The air was faint with the rich perfume 
That Anne of Austria loved to wear, 
As the Queen swept hastily down the room 
Crushing a billet , with haughty stare: 
" See, Chevreuse, you are always right! 

The Cardinal loves. Here under my hand 
Are the lines that proclaim him my faithful 
knight. 
He — the wretch! My "slave to command." 

"Insult! This to the Queen? " The ire 

Of the haughty Spaniard flamed in her eyes. 
" The king shall know—" " Madame, you desire 
Revenge?" cried her lady, " At hand it lies." 
A whispered conference; eyes alight 

With mirth and malice; and then: " Command 
Here in the palace, this very night, 
In jester's costume — a saraband!" 
(3D 



32 The CardinaPs Saraband 

Twilight in the Louvre. " But will he come, 

Think you, Chevreuse?" "Hist, Madame, 
Look!" 
Parting the tapestry of the room 

A swift form enters, and drops its cloak : 
A lithe slim figure advances, dressed 

In the fool's garb, tawny and red, with all 
The bells a-tinkle. Gods, what a jest ! 

Can this be the mighty Cardinal? 

Perfect. The coxcomb, the motley hose, 

Rosettes of scarlet on either foot ! 
" Boccau, the music! " The figure bows 

As a dance tune tinkles out of the lute, 
Bows and poses, then lightly whirls, 

Like a dancing dervise of the Eastern land ; 
The castanets clash as the white hand twirls — 

The Cardinal dances a saraband. 

Bravo, Richelieu! Ciel, what a grace! 

Who would have thought a shape so trim 
Could hide in a Cardinal's gown? The face 

For all, I fancy, looks somewhat grim. 
A smile? — that's well. Ah, a lighter bound, 

A gayer tune ! And the air is fanned 
Into motion swift, by the merry round 

Of the Cardinal dancing the saraband. 



The Cardinal's Saraband 33 

Come, my lord, you are not the first 

Who has played the fool for a woman's whim; 
And tawny and scarlet are not the worst 

Of colors to set off a shapely limb ! 
Quicken the measure.— Ha?— that sound! 

A titter behind the tall screen there 
In the corner! The dancer stops in his round, 

Conscious, at once, of the skillful snare. 

Richelieu— Minister, statesman, priest, 

Mock for a parcel of wanton dames ! 
Jest of the Court gallants— Ay, for the least 

Of their flippant pages! The cold eye flames. 
With a curse on lips that are chafed to blood, 

And a countenance working with impotent 
rage, 
The dancer flies from the room, pursued 

By shrieks of laughter and badinage. 

Eh, how the churchman fumed ! Mafoi, 

But that face was a study! Silence, all. 
No word to the king of the great eclat 

Of the late debut in his royal hall. 
Louis lacks humor, and might not look * 

On our scheme with favor. Ha, ha, the Fool ! 
The sight was a rare one — a Cardinal-Duke 

Pointing his toes in a gay fas seull 



34 The CardinaPs Saraband 

Yes — but he who laughs last laughs best: 

A proverb 'twere prudent to understand. 
Eh, by my faith 'twas a merry jest — 

The churchman dancing a saraband! 
But — when the plotting, early and late, 

Of an enemy wily and dark and stern, 
Turned the love of your friends to hate, 

Met and foiled you at every turn: 

Set you 'round with his treacherous spies, 

Discovered each secret you thought to hide; 
Turned the weak Louis' suspicious eyes 

On all your actions and galled your pride: 
When exiled Chevreuse, in sore disgrace, 

Fled for her life from her native land: — 
Did you think, my Queen, 'twas a costly price 

You paid for a single saraband ? 



DOROTHY VERNON'S FLIGHT 

There was dancing and revelry and feasting, 
On yonder night in stately Haddon Hall, 

For the gentles, who had trooped to the bridal 
From every side, made merry at the ball; 

The blaring horns and fiddles shrill were going, 
And the jests rose high above them all. 

And no smile was merrier or brighter, 
No laugh rippled blither on the air, 

Than that of the blooming little maiden, 
Fair Dorothy, so gaily dancing there. 

And her sire forgot to frown, laughing lightly: 
" So, girl, you have ceased my will to dare! " 

The prim stepmother, smiling grimly, 

Told herself how the plotting had been wise 
That kept the wild cadet of yonder castle 
From bearing off so beautiful a prize: 
w Since after all it cost," quoth my lady, 
" Only tears and a dozen paltry sighs." 
(35) 



36 Dorothy Vernon's Flight 

The bride cried : " Methought you had been 
rueing 
Your lost love John Manners; and so soon 
Have you quite, Doll, forgot his fervent wooing ? " 

But she whirled away, swinging to the tune 
Of " The wind that shakes the Barley," further 
parley 
Lost and drowned in the blare of the bassoon. 

And no step was lighter or was freer 
Than Dorothy's, upon that merry night; 

The roses in her cheek glowed like fire, 

Her eyes mocked the jewels with their light. 

The smile about her mouth, coming, going, 
Made each face the brighter for the sight. 

The dance-notes were ringing blithe and joyous, 
The light forms swinging down the floor, 

And the wax-lights a brighter sheen were flinging 
Over merriment that grew from more to more; 

Till none could hear, across the noisy revel, 
The opening and shutting of a door. 

A foot paused a moment on the threshold, 
A face shone an instant in the stream 

Of light, ere the portal, softly closing, 
Shut in again the taper's yellow gleam; 



Dorothy Vernon* s Flight 37 

A cloaked and hooded form across the terrace 
Sped silent as a figure in a dream. 

A shimmer of white damask in the moonlight, 
A hurried backward glance of alarm, 

And the maiden gains the shadow of the yew-trees 
And the shelter of her lover's clasping arm, — 

There was low laugh that trembled into weeping, 
And the light touch of kisses soft and warm. 

And light the sturdy knight swung the lady 
To the saddle of the ready -waiting bay, — 

One glance at lighted hall and dusky forest, 
Then foot in the stirrup and away ! 

In the white moon-light across the moorland 
Riding on till the dawning of the day. 

The mad merry measure of the music 
Sounded on, and the revel gaily sped — 

Or ever grim Sir George and his lady 
Had learned that their prisoner had fled, 

With priest, and ring, and book, upon the morrow 
John Manners and fair Dorothy were wed. 



MALISON 

THIRTEENTH CENTURY 

What doth make my lord so pale? 
Why in his sleep doth he moan and wail ? 
Surely a lord so fair and fine 
Should sleep on roses and live on wine. 

Down in the long dank marshy grass 
The Zingaro cowered to see him pass. 
The face was dark but the eyes were bright, 
And the steed swayed sharply at the sight. 

" Dog of a gipsy! " my lord he said, 

And his brand gleamed bright above his head, 
One moment flashed in the moon-lit air, 
And the gipsy's form lay weltering there. 

The gipsy lifted a look of hate; 
" Let me speak the curse or it be too late." 

He made in the air a mystic sign; 
" You are rich and handsome, master mine. 

" Backward your luck this hour I read. 
Ay, cross yourself, you have bitter need, 
Wild with unrest your days shall be, 
And still in your sleep you shall come to me ! " 
(38) 



Malison 39 

What doth make my lord so pale? 

Why in his sleep doth he moan and wail ? 

Surely so fair and fine a lord 

May laugh to scorn a gipsy's word ! 

Nothing but crosses sore he hath 
Who dares to rouse the gipsy's wrath. 
But the fiends in hell they fare not worse 
Than he who carries the gipsy's curse. 



THE WIFE OF PYGMALION 

Now Pygmalion, the statuary of Cyprus^ became enamored of a 
beautiful statue of ivory and gold which he had made, and at his 
earnest prayer Venus changed this statue into a woman, whom the 
artist married, and by whom he had a son called PaJ>hus, who founded 
the city of that name in Cyprus. Ovid, Met. w : q. 

What is it that you ask of me, 

My lord and master, whose skilled hand 
Called from the burnished ivory 
This fairest shape in all the land? 
Ah me, you miss — Alas! alas! 
Something that never was. 

Am I not fair as when the flame 

Of life, Jove-sent, thrilled first each limb? 
Each curve and dimple is the same. 
Is my cheek paler? Mine eye dim? 

You gave me grace and form — the whole. 
Could you not give — a soul? 

Ah no. Souls come of suffering, 

Of midnight anguish, pain and tears, 
Of bitter agonies that wring 

The heart; of wrong that burns and sears. 
I — what have I to do with these, 
Shut up in soulless ease? 
(40) 



The Wife of Pygmalion 41 

One time I thought a soul began 
To stir within me, when I felt 
The warm breath of our baby fan 
My breast; and you beside me knelt 

With that new rapture in your eyes, 
And a great glad surprise ! 

And once, too, when your rapt eyes burned 

With such fire of creative art, 
To share your thought I dumbly yearned; 
So wild an anguish rent my heart — 

Almost, I thought, the pang and glow 
Might be a soul's birth throe! 

Oh, pray for me, that I may know 

All shades of human suffering, 
The very height and depth of woe, — 
If so the grief and pain might bring 
Into this perfect form of mine 
At last — the Soul divine! 



THE SAGA OF THE QUERN-STONES 

King Frode from Sweden 

Two giant maidens brought; 
With many a shining gulden 

From King Fjolnir bought; 
For in all the realm of Gotland 

No hand was to be found 
To grasp the huge quern-handle 

And turn the mill-stones round, — - 

The wonderful grey quern-stones, 

Of his treasures best by far, 
Once wrested from the giants 

By his great ancestor Thor; 
Now whoso turned them roundabout 

Could grind good luck or ill, 
Gold and jewels, joy and plenty, 

Could summon at his will. 

" Grind, grind for me! " cried Frode, 
" Beneath your mighty hold 
These magical grey quern- stones 
Shall grind me gems and gold." 
(42) 



The Saga of the Quern- Stones 43 

Then Menja and Fenja 

They stood up at the quern, 
And slowly, so slowly, 

The stones began to turn, 

Then swifter, and swifter, 

Until through all the land 
The gold and silver money 

Was plentiful as sand. 
" We grind good luck to Gotland, 

Rich harvest-fields of grain ; 
No vessel sails from harbor 

That comes not back again. " 

" Grind, grind for me ! " cried Frode, 
" Grind love and joy and peace, 
Till Gotland is the richest realm, 
Your grinding shall not cease ! " 
" There is no beggar in the land, 
Each peasant has his hoard, 
And nowhere in the kingdom 

Does the warrior draw his sword, 

" Now give us rest, O Frode! " 

" Then rest ye," said the king, 
" But only while the cuckoo's note 
Is silent in the spring." 



44 The Saga of the Quern- Stones 

" O never in the springtime 

Does the cuckoo's calling cease, 
So bid us somewhat longer 
From labor find release." 

" Then rest ye while a verse 

Of my minstrel's song is sung."- 
Upon the handle of the quern 
The sinewy hands are flung. 
" We grind good luck to Gotland ; 
To Frode quiet sleep; 
Be heard no sound of wrangling, 
No eye be seen to weep! 

" Now give us rest, O Frode; 

Have you not had your fill?" 
" Rest only while a verse is sung, 

Or the cuckoo's note is still." 
" Black are the skies above us, 

The cold winds beat our breast, 
The frost is keen and biting; 

O Frode, give us rest! " * * 

" Revenge! Revenge, O Menja! 
We are of giant's blood. 
Grind, grind, O sister, swiftly — 
Bring ruin, fire, and flood ! 



The Saga of the Quern-Stones 45 

A ship comes sailing, sailing, 
With valiant warriors manned; 

We grind them near and nearer. 
Say, Frode, shall they land? " 

** A ship comes sailing, sailing! 

To Gotland hastening. 
Awake, awake, O Frode, 

Or be no more a king! 
; Tis Mysingr the viking; 

Thee sleeping shall he find? 
* * * Grind faster, grind harder, — 

To Frode death we grind!" 

The quetn-stones and the giant maids 

The vikings bear on board, 
With Frode's crown and jewels, 

And all his shining hoard. 
" Of golden store we need no more; 

But here no salt we find : 
Ho Menja! Ho Fenja! 

Grind salt, weird sisters, grind ! " 

" From noon of day till noon of night 
We labor at the quern! 
Ho, viking, hast thou salt enough? " 
But still he bade them turn. 



4.6 The Saga of the £hiern- Stones 

" The ship is filled with salt, O king, 
So well thy slaves have ground ! " 
Beneath the weight the vessel sinks, 
And all the host are drowned. 

" Grind, Menja! Grind, Fenja! 

The quern-stones shall not halt 
Till all the waters of the sea 

Are filled with shining salt!" 
Unto this day the quern-stones whi. 

And still the salt out-pours, 
And where they sank off Norway's coi 

The Maelstrom seethes and roars! 



MOLY 

Where is that healing plant the ancients fable? 

Moly they named it; all the flower was white, 
And the root black; and the clear juice was able 

To heal all wounds, to put all ills to flight. 

It blooms about us still, Yet does it borrow 
Beauty and grace from no mere earthly sod. 

Deep in the soul, from the black root of sorrow, 
Grows the white perfect flower of Trust in God, 
(47) 



HOLY POVERTY 

" La Poverta, la madre di tulti le arti.'* 

O Poverty, the mother of all arts, 
No dreamer of vain visions is the son 
Nurtured by thee! Only the duty done 

Thou dost accept; bidding him in the marts 

To stand and strive among the foremost. Hearts 
Grow strong by striving. Laurels are not won 
Save by long steady effort. Who would run 

Must bate no jot the pace wherewith he starts. 

Madonna Mia, holy Poverty! 

I lift for kisses lips that late reviled. 

Nor will I flout thee more, (Forgive thy child!) 
But hand in hand walk with thee to the end, 

However bleak the path thou ieadest me. 
Stern tasker, harshest teacher, truest friend. 



QUATRAINS 
i 
THE MAXIM OF APOLLONIUS 
Better in some mean shrine beside the way 
To find a statue of ivory and gold, 
Than in a lofty temple to behold 
A huge, coarse figure of the common clay. 

ii 
NOW 
Has one a tender thought of me? 
Speak it (I pray!) O friend, to-day. 
To-morrow betwixt me and thee 
Like a shut door the grave shall be. 

in 

THE FALLING STAR 

See where yon star falls headlong, flashing 

Across the purple twilight air! — 
An Angel bears to earth from heaven 
The answer to a mortal's prayer. 
(49) 



5 o Quatrains 



IV 

ON READING 



Little I love these lines of thine 
Drunk with rhythm as if with wine. 
Wheeling and reeling they recall 
Only the dance of a Bacchanal. 

v 

A WOMAN'S CHOICE 
No laurel — nay ! Give me heartsease, I pray. 

Laurel grows on the heights so lone and cold ; 

But heartsease clusters by the warm threshold, 
And brightens with its blossoms all the day. 

VI 

A CHILD'S ANSWER 

What makes the buttercup so yellow ? 

O, he caught a golden sunbeam in his cup, 

And would not yield it up — 

The saucy fellow ! 

VII 

LARGESS 
Ah, when a kingly soul doth largess give, 

How far its worth exceeds the gift itself! 

The slightest thing outweighs a miser's pelf 
When round it cluster memories that live. 



Quatrains 5 1 

VIII 
A NARROW LIFE 

A narrow life, shut m by petty care, 
Has room for duty and for beauty too; 

Beauty of faithful serving. — What more fair 
Can angels offer to the Master's view? 

IX 

THE UNWRITTEN MESSAGE 
To carry thought how weak 

Are words, mere idle signs. 
Heart-deeps to heart-deeps speak 

Between the lines. 

x 
FROM SCHILLER 

Only Life repeats itself forever, 
Fantasy immortal youth doth hold. 

What in time and space existed never 
That, alone, can not grow old. 

XI 

OF TIRELESS PATIENCE 
[A Persiofi Fable.] 

Before the close-barred gate of paradise 

A poor man watched a thousand years ; then dozed 

One little instant only, with dulled eyes; 

That instant open swung the gate— and closed. 



52 Quatrains 



XII 
SEPTEMBER 



Lush juices of ripe fruits; splashed color flung 
From Frost's first palette — purple, gold and red; 

The last sweet song the meadow -lark has sung, 
Dirge of the Summer dead. 



WHERE'S THE BABY? 

Oh dear, where is the Baby gone? 

I can't tell where I missed him ; 
Why only last night in his crib 

I tucked him safe and kissed him ! 
This boy, with marbles, top and ball, 

In knickerbockers dressed, 
This cannot be the baby small 

I cradled on my breast. 

I want the weenty teenty thing 

In dresses soft and white, 
That I could cuddle, kiss, and sing 

Soft by- lows to at night. 
But stay — here are the self -same eyes, 

His very dimpled chin, 
These are his rosy pouting lips 

With milk-white-teeth within, 

This is my Baby. — But how changed ! 

I hear his merry shout 
As he goes sliding down the stair, 

And dancing in and out; 
(53) 



Where's the Baby? 54 

Splashing and dashing through the brook. 

With brow and cheek of tan. 
Heigho! My baby's gone; instead 

I see, — a little man. 

Ah well, when evening comes again 

With sleep and story-time, 
A little white-gowned form will come 

Into my lap to climb; 
His wee head cradled on my heart 

Will still this yearning pain. 
O then I'll know that I have found 

My baby-boy again ! 



THE SINGER 

A singer went singing adown the world, 

Now in green meadows and now in the town, 

Anon where the smoke of the battle whirled, 
Then off where the autumn woods lay brown. 

Singing, still singing. Ay, nothing but that. 

When the trumpet summoned the hosts to war 
And the soldiers rushed at the rat-tat- tat 

Of the deafening drum, she stood afar: 

And sang of the conflict in ringing tones, 
Of the laurel wreath, of the victor's death — 

Till the dying silenced their shuddering groans, 
And smiled as they drew their final breath. 

She sang of duty. Her weak hands failed 
As she strove the burden of life to bear; 

But through all of the song no sadness wailed 
As she sang, still sang, in her white despair. 

She sang of love. From her eager hand 
Love's brimming chalice was dashed aside. 

As her steps drew near to the Unknown Land 
She gazed on the past and wistful sighed: 

(55) 



56 /%£ dinger 

" In all the fray I have struck no blow ! 

Ah! welladay; but the hours were long: 
When evening comes what have I to show 

Save here and there the thread of a song?" 

But the warriors knew at the conflict's end, 
When the roar of the battle had died away, 

That song which seemed with the cannon to blend 
Had strengthened each arm in the deadly fray. 

And the souls that in duty's lonely way 

With faltering steps had journeyed long, 
When the voice of the singer reached them that 
day 
Felt the hearts within them grow brave and 
strong. 

And happy lovers, that hand in hand 
Wandered together the wide world o'er, 

From that song they but vaguely could understand, 
Learned a deeper love than they knew before. 

1S73 



UNDER THE BEECHES 

In the grey beech shadows 

Dewy violets hide, 
Anemone and blood-root 

Blossom side by side; 
And the tall, white trillium 

On her slender stem, 
Like some pale Court beauty 
Bends to them. 

In the grey beech shadows 

It was years ago 
When last I saw the wind-flower 

And Spring-beauty blow: 
But my heart grows tender 

With a yearning wild 
For the woods I strayed in 
When a child. 

Is there any dainty 

Tasting half so sweet 
As the wild May-apple 
That we used to eat ? 
Any costly, jewel 

With as rich a glow 
As the red rose-heart showed 
Long ago? 

(57) 



MIDWINTER 

The sad earth cowers beneath the snow- 
That wraps her like a shroud, 
Around the house the bleak winds go 
With waitings shrill and loud. 

But soft and low my heart doth sing: 

" I know, I know — 
After each Winter comes a Spring, 
When roses blow ! " 

What time my soul in sadness lay 

Compassed by shadows drear, 
When gladness seemed so far away 
And grief so near — so near; 

Still soft and low my heart would sing: 

" I know, I know — 
That after sorrow there comes a morrow 
With joy aglow." 
(58)^ 



CRICKET 

Cricket, you're no summer friend! 

When the snows have hid the earth 
To the dreary winter's end, 

Blithe you sing beside my hearth: 
"Chirrup! chirrup!" 

Filling- all the room with mirth. 

Fairer far are butterflies 

Blossom-winged and gold-bedight, 
But beneath the summer skies 

Only, will they bless my sight ; 
" Chirrup! chirrup!" 

You make blithe the winter's night. 

Not for flaunting, fair outside, 

Will I make my friends my own, 
Lest my fortunes they deride. 
Cricket clad in dusty brown, 

Constant ever 
Friends like you will still abide. 
(59) 



THE SNOWDROP 

When Eve, outside the gate of Paradise, 
Watched the first snowflakes whiten hill and 

dell; 
Hot blinding tear drops rilled her gentle eyes, 
With bitter grief her heart began to swell 
For the lost flowers of Eden loved so well. 

"O my lost buds and flowers," she sighed," to 

whom 
Sweet names I gave, and whom I reared with 

care! 
In all this wilderness there is no bloom, 
But cruel thorns and thistles everywhere 
Set thick about the path our feet to tear. 

" My heart goes wearying for you day by day, 
Knowing I ne'er shall see you more, alas! 
And now the cruel snow will hide away 
Even these poor little tender blades of grass 
That stoop to kiss my tired feet as I pass." 

An angel swift-descending spake: " O Eve, 
Our Lord hath heard. He leaves not comfort- 
less 

(60) 



The Snowdrop 61 

His erring ones. He bids you cease to grieve; 
Your willing hands to patient work address, 
And make an Eden of this wilderness. 

"Even as repentance cometh after sin, 
Softening the heart and healing sin's dark wound ; 
So after Winter's storms shall Spring begin 
With gentle showers to soften all the ground 
And strew on every side her grasses 'round. 

" Root out these thorns and brambles from the 
soil, — 
As from your hearts the discontent that lies 
Therein. And after months of earnest toil 
On every side shall blossoms bright arise, 
Only less fair than those of Paradise. 

" And that ye well may know these things are 
true, 
I i/ive a siini," he said. A flake of snow 

fc> o " 

He caught, and kissed, and lightly earthward 

threw ; 
There, rooted deep, and wavering to and fro, 
The flake became the snowdrop that we k?tow. 



WESTWARD HO 

ON BOARD THE FLEET OF COLUMBUS: A SPANISH SAILOR 
SPEAKS 

Ay! We have seen them on the far horizon, 
Lying all bright against the Western sky, 
These Fortunate Isles! The summer sunbeam 
lies on 
Their peaks when daylight in our clime goes by. 

Still, Westward Ho, 
Sailing beyond the sunset let us go! 

I do not hold with this new-fangled notion 
Of Senor Cristofero, that the world 

Is round, not flat. The waters of the ocean 
Over the edge would speedily be whirled ; 

And thus — all dry 
Before our eyes the ocean bed would lie. 

That's too absurd. But ne'ertheless, signori, 

He's a brave man and learned, our Admiral. 
And, ere six days are gone, you'll see before ye 
That fertile country which the Norsemen call 

Vinland. — But / 
Hold just before us those same Isles must lie! 
(62) 



Westward Ho 63 

When Spain was o'er-run by the Moorish legions, 
Did not seven Bishops with an exile band 

(Six centuries gone), set sail toward those regions, 
To found seven cities in the unknown land, 

Where the True Faith 
And its adherents should be saved from death ? 

The Isle of Seven Cities is the nearest 

Of these same Isles I speak of. One may see 
From the Canaries, when the air is clearest, 
Its castled peaks, old mariners agree. 

Of all the host 
That since have sailed, but two have reached the 
coast. 

One was a Portuguese, a pilot ; steering 

South from the warm Canaries, he was caught 

In a wild storm of wind and rain, and veering 
Westward, chanced on the very land he sought ; 

Was tempest-tossed, 
Half dead with hunger, on the rocky coast, 

And walked and talked with men who spoke Cas- 
tilian 

After the old style; saw the Cross raised high 
Upon the churches; slept in the pavilion 

Of their first General; sailing — suddenly 



64 Westward Ho 

Once more was tossed 
By cyclones till all reckoning was lost. 

Yea, often I, myself, have heard the story 
Told by my grandsire, of one Don Fernande 

Who swore for him alone should be the glory 
Of re-discovering this wondrous land. 

So he set sail 
With a good fleet; and marvelous is the tale 

Of his adventures: — how he found the city, 

Was hailed Adelantado of the Isle, 
And flirted with the Alcayde's daughter pretty ; 
Served with distinguished pomp and state the 
while : 

And, on the morn, 
In the Alcayde's own barge was shipward borne : 

Saw from before his eyes his vessels vanish, 
Barge, rowers, Alcayde, disappear! And, far 

At sea, himself, was picked up by some Spanish 
Or Portuguese; close clinging to a spar! 

To Lisbon straight 
They bore him, pitying his wretched state. 

Well, hear the end! He finds himself forgotten 
By every one, name, rank, and mission,— all ! 



Westward Ho 65 

The very lintels of his hall are rotten. 
From brasses on the old Cathedral wall, 

Lo, it appears 
His sweet-heart has been dead one hundred years. 

Some wisepates call these histories a farrago 
Of idle nonsense ; say the men were daft, 
Crazed by long shipwreck: but by St. Iago 

I hold they were more sane than those who 
laughed 

At them, forsooth, 
Because their blear eyes had not seen the truth. 

Certain it is some land to Westward stretches, 

For I myself have seen upon the shore 
Of the wild Orkneys, strange bright seeds and 
vetches, 
And drifting weeds, of kinds unknown before ; 

And a canoe 
Carved of some wood our builders never knew! 

St. Brandan be our guide! Good angels be 
Our guard, and aid us where the many fail! 

The wind is rising- — Ha, who knows but we 
May be swept thither by this very gale ? 

The Genoese 
Says land lies somewhere in these very seas! 



66 Westward Ho 

When in the Bay we ride again at anchor 

They will not scoff, — Yon fools who doubt the 
truth. 
Westward-Ho, comrades all! With hearts to con- 
quer 
The El Dorado and the Fount of Youth— 

On, brave hearts, on 
To the bright land beyond the setting sun! 



CARMINA VOTIVA 



TAKE HEART OF GRACE 

TO E. C. S. 
[With a Little Book] 

Take heart of grace this morn of May, 
My little song, and go your way. 
Your coming he'll not take amiss, 
But read between these lines, I wis, 
The faltering words I fain would say 
Of thanks for helpful thoughts. 

I pray 
You, stand no more on Yea and Nay 
But haste — to meet that glance of his 
Take heart of grace. 

An if his path with garlands gay 

Be strewn? — The one wild-flower we lay 

Thereon, he will not flout for this! 

In poet souls no scorn there is. 
The first swift impulse blithe obey — 
Take heart of grace. 

May 30, 1886 

. (69) 



A POET'S GIFT 

TO E. C. S. 

A poet's gift before me lies, 

Gazed on through dim, tear-moistened eyes; 
A letter with a line of praise, 
A volume vellum-clad. The rays 

Fall slantwise — the sun glorifies 

My gift to gold: the morning flies. 

I linger still, with happy sighs 
Slow-murmuring in sweet amaze: 
"A poet's gift? 

All else may fail me, — high emprise 

Youth dreamed of, wealth, the friends that rise 

To greet success, — "Yet" (my heart says,) 
" One thing is mine through all my days, 
A thing which Time himself defies — 
A pocfs giitl" 

July, 1886 

(70) 



WOMAN AND ARTIST 

TO E. W. T. 

If she neglected one especial gift 
And turned from laurel crowns she might have won, 
From the high tasks that genius might have clone, 
Dropping the pencil or the brush to lift 
Wee baby feet across the stones, to sift 
Meanings from childish prattle, and to croon 
Low, tender, cradle-songs in dreamy tone; 
Catching from baby eyes, as through a rift 
In clouds, the light of heaven.— Is this a lot 
To be deplored? Nay, would she if she could 
Exchange? First, woman— after, poet— what 
You will! Her soul has seized the greater good: 
The dizzy heights of Fame were well forgot 
To sound the wondrous depths of Motherhood. 
(7i) 



A SINGER'S BIRTHDAY 

TO H. W. L. 

What idle tale is this of silvered hair? — 
'Tis but the radiance from his Crown of Song; 
Nor are those wrinkles which are deepening there, 
But furrows such as to deep thought belong. 

Poets grow never old like mortal men. 
When their life's golden legend all is told, 
And from the wearied fingers falls the pen, 
They walk with God as Enoch walked of old. 

Yet — though this world of bustle and of din 

Be but the Wayside Inn wherein you wait 

A little while, before you enter in 

To the vast temple of Song; where Homer great, 

Dante and Shakespeare, all strong souls w r e know, 
Wait but your coming to complete the choir; — 
Stay with us yet for many a year below 
To cheer our hearts and lift our tried souls higher. 
(72) 



A Singer's Birthday 73 

Make not your pleasure but our need your choice: 
A hundred years were far too brief a time 
In which to give life's mellowed wisdom voice, 
To fit the perfect thought to golden rhyme. 

Sing on, O Master, on whose tuneful breath 
The world hangs listening ; think not to die— 
For should the Reaper come whose name is Death, 
We'll hide you in our hearts till Death goes by! 

February, 188o 



DESERT-BOUND 

TO E. S. P. 

Would I, if any wish of mine 
Could change my lot to one as fair 
As yonder soul's, that sips the wine 
Of life and rests on roses there, — 

Would I to such a wish give voice ? 
Or in my loneness onward press, 
Crying: "Rejoice, who can rejoice' 
I choose my rock-strewn wilderness; 

" I choose the bitter with the sweet, 
The thorn-pierced brow, the bleeding feet? 
Even this soul-hunger fierce, if so, 
My soul diviner life may know." 

O desert-bound and held apart 
From crowded street and busy mart, 
Denied that human sympathy, 
The very wine of life to thee; 
(74) 



Desert-Bound 75 

Be comforted. The locusts here 
And honev wild for thee are best. 
Perchance that fair lot seen too near 
Would scarcely prove to thee so blest. 

He knows, the All-wise, that some trial 
Too fierce for thee therein must lie; 
And love is kindest in denial 
That puts the poisoned chalice by, 

January 31, 18S0 



ACROSS THE SEA 

TO S M. B. P. 

Across the sea my little rhyme 
I scud you, mindful of the time, 

O once-seen friend, I sought your door 

Beside the blue Ohio's shore, 
One " primrose time." 

Ah, in our clime 
No primrose marks the Spring's blithe prime, 
But wind-flowers, wan as Winter's rime, 

And violets, — bluer do skies bend o'er 
Across the sea? 

Do you not hear in dreams the chime 
Of "dog-tooth" and blue-bells that climb 

That hillside ? " Come ! " (all tongues implore) 
"Return! — They cannot love you more 
Than we love, even in lands sublime 
Across the sea." 

June, iS36 

(76) 



THE TWO PATHS 

TO * * * 

Strike hands and part? But no, not so. 
To the same goal our paths must go : 
But while yon mountain path you tread 
My feet through blossoming lanes are led. 

I name the Name your lips confess 
In Love and Truth and Righteousness: 
Blame me not, friend, that still for me 
Made warm and human Faith must be. 

O not to all is given to bear 
That higher, rarer atmosphere 
Of the Eternal Silences, 
Where only noblest souls may press. 

Only the prophet soul with God 
The veiled peak of Sinai trod; 
Low on the plain the multitude 
For some clear message waiting stood. 
(77) 



y8 The Two Paths 

For you, enough the spirit's flame; 
My lips the spoken word must frame. 
The cross you do not need, must be 
A strength and a support to me. 

Then not " Farewell " twixt me and you, 
Rather the nobler word Adieu, 
With God we walk, or here or there ; 
God with us — for us each His care! 

1S86 



THE DANDELION 

TO S. M. B. P. 

The dandelion disks of gold 
Like mimic suns the greensward dot, 
In woods beyond the meadow-lot 
The violet's shy blue eyes unfold. 
Bid blithe farewell to winter's cold 
And troop to field from hall or cot 
The dandelion disks of gold 
Like mimic suns the greensward dot 

I'm jealous, sweet, lest you should hold 
The primrose dearer!-— Ah, be not 
In English primrose time forgot 
Our own gold-daisy, brave and bold, 

The dandelion — whose disks of gold 
Like mimic suns the greensward dot! 

18S6 

(79) 



RHYMER'S REASON 

TO W. E. B. 

We've lived our sonnet, you and I. 
We've had all best that life can show 
Of smile and sigh, of throb and glow ; 
What reck we though Youth pass us by? 
We've lived our sonnet, you and I. 

Life moves no more to rapid rhyme. 
We sing not now with easy art 
Of loves and doves, of heart and dart, 
As erst we sang in sonnet-time: 

But " age " and " sage," instead we chime. 

Yet who, with saucy mocking tongue 
Dare call us old? We smile, and know 
Grey hairs and wrinkles we can show — 
Antic disguises merely, flung 

To hide the masking soul still young. 

Whom Love hath kissed grows never old. 
The draught he gave he stole in truth 
From yon fount of Eternal Youth, 
Hid in the fabled land of gold, 

To which fond pilgrims fared of old. 
(80) 



Rhymer's Reason 81 

So, listening to life's vesper chime, 
We lift our children on our knee; 
And in their dancing eyes we see 
The dawn of love, the bliss at prime, 
The glad youth of our sonnet-time. 



ROSE SONGS, ETC. 



PRELUDE 

"It is the Wood of Faerie 

With linden-fragrance brcatJiing, 
The wondrous spell of the weird moonlight 
Around my heart is wreathing. 

I wander on, and as I stray 

A song comes downward ringing : 

It is the nightingale, of love 
And of lovers sorrow singing, 

Of love and of lovers agony, 

Of laughter and of weeping ; 
So sad, so sweet — across my heart 

Forgotten dreains come sweeping." 

Translation from HEINE. 
(85) 



ROSENLIED 



I said to the rose, " O rose! 

What was it the nightingale sang? 
For all night beneath my lattice 

In the dusk his clear notes rang." 

Then the hue of the crimson rose 

Was dyed a lovelier red, 
And she trembled with passionate longing, 

And drooped her gentle head. 

" Last night beside the lattice, 
Before the white moon set, 
Two stood within the shadow — 
O heart! dost thou forget? 

"A kiss; and two hands close clinging 
In a silent, long troth-plight, — 
O heart, O heart, thou knowest 

What the nightingale sang all night!" 
(37) 



ROSENLIED 



The nightingale sang to the rose 

Through the livelong night, 
Till its hue from a ruby- red 

Turned wan and white. 
All night it rose and fell — 

That silvery strain, 
And the heart of the red rose throbbed 

With divinest pain : 

" O love, O love ! " (it rang), 
" I love but thee. 

Thou art queen of all flowers," (he sang), 
" And queen of me ! 
O love, my love!" he said. 

Before the dawn 
The rose on its stalk hung dead. 
The bird was gone. 
(88) 



THE DYING ROSE TO THE NIGHTIN- 
GALE 

What were the gifts of a thousand lovers 
To that one perfect song of thine, 

Whose liquid cadence around me hovers 
Steeping my soul in bliss divine. 

to live and to love forever! 
Out of my petals fades the red ; 

The night and thy song, O love, are over; 
I am dying, and thou — art fled. 

Fled! Live on then, — and love another; 

That can not rob me of my bliss, 
Though thou shouldst woo a hundred, no other, 

Never a one, wilt thou love like this ! 

Thou too must pass death's shadowy portal ; 

Naught will remain but this song of thine. 
Life is fleeting but song is immortal; 

Half of thy fame is also mine. 

1 dare not weep though I fade forever; 

More from a century none could win. 
This is my joy, that never, oh never, 
Save for me, love, thy song had been 1 
(89) 



THE PAGE SINGS 

u It was a squire of low degree 
Loved a King's daughter of Hongrie." 

There's a crown of red gold in your hair, 

Lady mine, 
And on bosom and neck rich and rare 
Jewels shine ; 
But dearer to me are the fair golden tresses 
Than all of the wealth that a monarch possesses, 
The fair brow more precious I hold 
Than the crown of red gold! 

The King and his court are asleep. 

Only I 
Am awake: '"neath your bower I creep, 
There to sigh 
To the nightwind, that moans with my heart, all 

my passion; 
To gaze on your casement the while that I fashion 
Your features and form in my mind, 
And that last look — so kind ! 
(90) 



The Page Sings 91 

Send down from your far window's height, 

Lady mine, 
One glance from the eyes filled with light 
So divine. 
My princess — Ah sure you may grant a boon that is 
So slight, to the page who sings under your lattice! 
Draw near and look down while I sing; 
He is sleeping — the king. 



WOOING 

[he speaks] 

At last I spoke. O faint and sweet 

As a strain of distant song 
Was the smile that just touched mouth and eyes 

As we two passed along, 
Through sun and shade of yonder glade 
Where early violets throng. 

It's " O love, my true love, 

And will you be my wife? 
Love like mine for you, love, 
Ends not even with life!" 

A sigh, a glance, a rosy blush, 

A softly whispered " Yes " — 
And it seemed that all the joy of heaven 

Came down my soul to bless, 
In that first bliss of warm troth-kiss 
When lips to fond lips press. 
" And O love, my true love, 
Be but true to me, 
As I to you, love, 
Evermore will be." 
(92) 



Wooing 93 

" Sweet, sweet, sweet! " the wild birds trilled, 
A-buildmg their tiny nest, 
And " Sweet, sweet," the brown bee hummed 

As it swung on a clover-crest, 
And " Sweet," sighed low a summer wind 
As it swooned on the rose's breast. 
And " O love, my true love, 

Strong are Time and Death, 
But love like mine for you, love, 
They can not change!" he saith. 



CAMPION 

I placed a scarlet campion flower 
In the wreathed tresses of my head. 
" No damosel in hall or bower 

Is fairer than my love," he said. 

Years after in a folded book 

I found a withered campion flower; 

And paled, with that swift backward look 
That ghost-seers have at twilight hour. 

O withered heart, O love long dead ! 

" Poor faded flower that shone so fair, 
Well suits thy phantom bloom " (I said) 

" With the white tresses of my hair." 
(94) 



A SONG OF FLEETING LOVE 

Love has wings as light as a bird, 
Guileless he looks, as a dove, of wrong.— 
Whatever his song, be it brief or long, 
It still has this for an overword: 
" Love has wings ! " 

Though to-day the truant may stay, 
Though he woos and sues and sings; 
Only sorrow to maids he brings — 
Pout him and flout him, laugh him away: 
Love has wings. 

Hold your pulses calm, unstirred — 
Calm and cool as a woodland pool, 
Let not his song your heart be-fool; 
List, through it all, for the overword: 
" Love has wings." 
(95) • 



THE POISON FLASK 

[Temp. Louis XV.] 

A crystal flasket: one drop (ay, that's all) 

Of its clear contents well administered — 
Dripped in the succory water, say, — she'll fall 

Dead in a. flash, with no accusing word. 
Not that I mean to do it! Nay, the nerve 

Is scarce mine. Something, though, it is, to hold 
Here in my hand the subtle spell might serve 

To stretch that supple body stiff and cold ! 

Gods, how I hate her! — with those sleepy eyes 

Like two gray agates filled with lambent light 
Hate that full bosom's lazy fall and rise, 

The red ripe lips, the cheek's vermeil and 
white ! 
I loathe your lush blonde beauties. I am dark — 
Small and so dark — eyes, brows and dusky hair, 
My skin's a clearer white than hers though, 
mark,— 
If she were gone the king would find me fair. 
(0) 



The Poison Flask 97 

If she were gone. — This liqueur has the hue 

Of liquid diamonds, what a flash that was! 
This gold top's chasing, now, is curious, too: 

How clear the crystal is and free from flaws. 
Venetian ? — fit to hold (the chymist said) 

These Medicean drops — the very same 
That Catherine used to mingle with the red 

Wine draught of certain friends who crossed 
her game. 

If Artemise were gone. A better way 

Might be — to spoil her beauty by the art 
Of some infernal wash, some acid, say, 

In her cosmetics, to eat, scar, and smart. 
That is a wild dream only! What I seek 

Is something quick and final. — Not a trace 
Left of the method. — Dead folks never speak, 

Even if they return to haunt the j:>lace. 

A poisoned ring would be at once suspect, 
That's such an old device; and the bouquet, 

And gloves with poisoned perfumes, all reject 
Save the mere novice. If — mind if, I say, — 

The deed were done with this, there is no clue 
Whereby Justice the author could divine. 

She lives but at my will! And I — I know 



o8 The Poison Flask 

If she were gone the king — the king were 
mine! 

How small the flask is. Small enough to swing 

Here at my girdle with the silver keys 
Held by the chatelaine. I'll wear the thing 

Just so upon the chain ; and if she sees 
And wonders at the bauble, I reply 

It is — 'tis my scent flasket, vinaigrette! — 
No, no! I'll wear it not! I'll put it by 

In the carved casket there with jewels set. 

So, then, I turn the key upon the flask 

Of liquid death. I shall not use it — No. 
But it is sweet to feel how slight a task 

'T would be to bring her insolent beauty low. 
I'll keep it then ; sometimes, perhaps, unlock 

The casket's secret drawer, hang gloating o'er 
My deadly treasure. — Ha! Was that a knock? 

Some one is standing just without the door. 

'Tis Artemise herself. "Yes! Enter, straight." 
What means the look of triumph in her eye? 
"How radiant, sweet! — robed as for some grand 
fete! 
What lovely pearls! — a queen for such might 
sigh. 



The Poison Flask 99 

Ah— How; You dine tonight, love, with the 
king? 

You happy girl! Nay, wait one moment yet. 
I'll scarce ten seconds keep you tarrying. 

See! I but fasten on— my vinaigrette? 



JUNE ROSES 

O roses, June roses! From yonder beds of bloom 
Is wafted toward me your subtile faint perfume, 
Which draws me, half-willing, as 'twere a greet- 
ing sweet, 
To stay in your presence the going of my feet. 

O red rose, deep red rose! the emblem of a heart 
Encrimsoned with passion and youthful love thou 

art; 
But white rose, the right rose art thou, beloved, sure, 
To symbol that heart made by pain and sorrow 

pure. 

O roses, fair roses, you bring me bitter ruth, 

You mind me of yonder fair summer time in youth — 

Two stood by a window where clung the wild 

sweetbriar, 
And roses whose hearts glowed with strange and 

subtile fire. 

O roses, list, roses: he murmured, " Take this rose 
Which symbols the passion that in my bosom glows ; 
O take it and keep it and keep the love as well ! " 
The love I had no word for the blushes rose to tell 
(ioo) 



jfune Roses ioi 

And roses, O roses! — that rose, I have it yet, 
No longer its petals with morning dew are wet, 
Its hot crimson blushes are faded now and gone, 
It lies in my casket all scentless, white and wan. 

roses, O roses! that love died long ago. 

1 wept not its going : I knew 'twas better so. 
And I put by a ring and a broken troth-plight 
When I put by my red rose, had faded into white. 

roses, June roses, my life is fair and bright, 
I've passed from the night-gloom of sorrow into 

light; 
But in the June weather when purple roses blow, 

1 sigh, through all my smiling, at thought of long 

ago. 



THE SPINNER 

FROM THE GERMAN OF VOSS 

I sat and spun before my door: 

A youth along the road came straying, 

His hazel eyes a deep smile wore, 

And blushes on his cheek were playing; 

My glance was from the distaff won, 

I sat abashed, and spun and spun. 

In friendly tones, " Good day ! " he spoke, 
With timid grace approaching nigher: 

Startled was I, the thread it broke, 

My foolish heart leapt high and higher. 

The thread once more I fastened on, 

And sat abashed, and spun and spun. 

He clasped, with tender touch, my hand, 
And vowed none could with it compare- 

The very loveliest in the land, 

So swan-white, plump and dainty fair! 

As with his praise my heart he won 

I sat abashed, and spun and spun. 

(J02) 



The Spinner 103 

Upon my chair he laid his arm, 

And praised the finely-wroughten thread. 
So near his mouth, so red and warm, 

How gently: " Sweetest maid! " it said! 
The while he gazed my face upon 
I sat abashed, and spun and spun. 

His handsome face toward my own 

Meantime he bent with glances winning; 

It touched, by some odd chance unknown, 
My head that nodded in the spinning: 

He kissed me, this audacious one ! — 

I sat abashed, and spun and spun. 

I turned, reproof in earnest tone 

Upon his forwardness bestowing ; 
He clasped me close and, bolder grown, 

He kissed my face with blushes glowing. 
O tell me sisters — every one! 
Is't strange that now no more I spun? 



PLIGHTED. A. D. 1874 

"Two souls with but a single thought, 
Two hearts that beat as one." 

nellie loquitur. 

Bless my heart! You're come at last. 

Awful glad to see you, dear! 
Thought you'd died or something, Belle — 

Such an age since you've been here! 
My engagement? Gracious! Yes. 

Rumor's hit the mark this time. 
And the victim? Charley Gray, 

Know him, don't you? Well, he's firi?ne. 
Such mustachios! Splendid style! 

Then he's not so horrid fast — 
Waltzes like a seraph, too, 

Has some fortune — best and last. 
Love him? Nonsense. Don't be " soft." 

Pretty much as love now goes; 
He's devoted, and in time 

I'll get used to him, I s'pose. 
First love? Humbug. Don't talk stuff. 

Bella Brown, don't be a fool! 
Next you'll rave of flames and darts 

Like a chit at boarding school. 
(104) 



Plighted. A. D. 1874 105 

Don't be " miffed," I talked just so 

Some two years back. Fact, my dear! 
But two seasons kill romance, 

Leave one's views of life quite clear. 
Why, if Will Latrobe had asked 

When he left, two years ago, 
I'd have thrown up all and gone 

Out to Kansas; do you know ? 
Fancy me a settler's wife! 

Blest escape, dear, was it not? 
Yes, its hardly in my line 

To enact " Love in a Cot." 
Well, you see, I'd had my swing, 

Been engaged to eight or ten : 
Got to stop some time of course, 

So it don't much matter when, 
Auntie hates old maids, and thinks 

Every girl should marry young — 
On that theme my whole life long 

I have heard the chancres rung;! 
So, ma belle, what could I do? 

Charley wants a stylish wife, 
We'll suit well enough, no fear, 

When we settle down for life. 
But for love — stuff! See my ring? 



106 Plighted. A. D. 1874 

Lovely, isn't it ? Solitaire. 
Nearly made Maude Hinton turn 

Green with envy and despair, 
Her's aint half so nice, you see — 

Did I write you, Belle, about 
How she tried for Charley, till 

I sailed in and cut her out? 
Now she's taken Jack McBride, 

I believe it's all from pique — 
Threw him over once you know, — 

Hates me so she'll scarcely speak. 
O yes! Grace Church, Brown, and that, 

Pa won't mind expense at last, 
I'll be off his hands for good ; 

Cost a fortune two years past. 
My trousseau shall outdo Maude's, 

I've carte blanche from Pa, you know ; 
Mean to have my dress from Worth ! 

Won't she just be raving though ? 



SIC SEMPER 

'* Variunt et mutabile semper fentina." 

VIRGIL, B. IV J 569. 

sophomorus loquitur. 

I met her, you know, at that party 

Last summer at Minnie Latrobe's. 
Such eyes! and she knew how to use 'em. 

She wore the most gorgeous of robes. 
Her hair was the loveliest golden, 

Her eyes were a heavenly brown: 
Yes! I may as well own I was smitten, 

Hit hard, sir! Completely "bowled down." 

She said she did so like mustachios, 

And she glanced, as she spoke, at a pair 
That I think have wrought some execution 

In the hearts of susceptible fair. 
I vowed that her eyes were the loadstars 

That henceforth should guide my life-barque! 
(I got somewhat mixed in that figure— 

A fact which she didn't remark.) 
(107) 



io8 Sic Semfer 

She thought that small men were " just horrid'] 

(My height is just even six feet.) 
And she said that the lines which I quoted, 

From Byron, were " perfectly sweet." 
I treasured the flower that she gave me, 

Kept the glove that she lost on the lawn; 
And we walked on that shaded piazza, 

And talked till the guests were half gone. 

And all through the long weeks that followed 

We danced and we drove and we sung; 
Don't laugh, Hal! A fellow can't help it 

If sometimes his words are high-strung. 
She sighed and looked sad when we parted, 

And vowed she would never forget; 
She gave me the curl that I asked for, — 

That same golden tress I have yet. 

Corresponded? Of course. All her letters 

Are there in that desk, save the last — 
'Tis that which imparts to my visage, 

At present, its serious cast. 
Look there! In that postscript she tells me 

She's engaged— to that muff, Oscar Brown ! 
" The wedding will be in December," 

She " does so hope " that I'll be in town. 



Sic Semper 109 

« Varium et mutahle semper" — 

Virgil knew the whole sex, like a book , 
That's" the way with 'em all, false and fickle, 

However confiding they look. 
Confound it! who'd think it mere flirting, 
Who looked in those tender eyes then? 
Mind this! If I live to a hundred, 
I'll ne'er trust a woman again. 

[But he does.] 



THE INNER LIFE 



THE SIN OF OMISSION 

For it came to pass ■while thy servant was busy hither and thither, 
the man was gone.''' 

For I was busy hither and yon 

And to and fro ! 
Working the Master's work, I thought. 

Ah me, I know — 
Looking aback across the years — 

It was not so. 

Busy — pursuing, with blinded zeal, 

Some vague wild plan, 
Whereby the world should be sooner freed 

From error's ban, 
And Earth become Paradise once more, 

For sinful man. 

Over the bars of my garden gate, 

With wan pale face. 
One, wistful, gazed at the Summer bloom 

That filled the place; 
With hand outstretched, as if entreating 

A moment's grace. 
(113) 



1 14 The Sin of Omission 

But I was busy with greater things — 

A whole world's fate; 
Should I turn from these to the beggar there 

Without my gate? 
And I said: " Not now, but another time, 

He will surely wait!" 

So I toiled at my task with fevered haste 

Till eve came on. 
Then I went my way in the sunset gleam, 

O'er the grass-clad lawn 
To my garden wicket: — But lo! I found 

The man was gone. 

And the deeds that I wrought that busy day, 

Proved vain, the whole, 
And now too late, ah me ! I know 

In my inmost soul, 
'Twas an angel that stood in beggar's guise, 

And craved my dole. 

Now the livelong day with tristful heart, 

I stand and wait, 
Gazing and gazing adown the path; 

But ah ; too late ! 
The blessed presence will pause no more 

Beside my gate. 



IN THE KING'S NAME 

" In the King's Name!" will say 

Some day the Shadow grim, 

And we all silently 

Shall straightway follow him, 

Rending the veil away 
" As through a glass " to see 

No more, with vision dim. 

What shall our eyes behold 

When once that veil is lift? 

A new Jerusalem 

With radiant walls that sift 

Heaven's glory through many a gem ; 

With shining streets of gold, 

And the angels walking in them? — 

Or will the heavenly scene 
Be such as here we know ? 
The heavenly mansions be, 
Perchance, not all aglow 
With gold and glitter and sheen — 
But radiant with love that we 
Have known before — belozv! 
(ii5) 



n6 In the King's Name 



& 



Dear Lord, if this might be! — 

That it might be the same 

Dear home that in bygone days 

Made earth an Eden below! — 

How gladly would I go 

When the Shadow with veiled face, 

Bade come " In the King's Name!" 



THE WANDERING IN THE WILDER- 
NESS 
To Israel cherished of the Lord, 

Abiding in the stranger's land, 
Came her Jehovah's wakening word: 
«' Rise, follow my directing hand!" 
And through the dark sea's rolling tide, 
With His own glory for a guide, 
Went forth the band. 

My soul, abiding in the gloom 

Of error's night, His message heard, 

And. straightway in its living tomb 
The waking soul within me stirred ; 

" Arise, and follow ! In the sea, 
Or desert's waste, I am with thee; 
Thus saith the Lord." 

« Behold Thy servant, Lord!" I cried, 

And straightway rose and went with haste 
Forth through the sea's arrested tide, 
And entered on the desert's waste, 
And here my soul hath wandered long 
With aimless steps, by its own wrong 
And terror chased. 
(ii7) 



Ii8 The Wandering in the V/ilderness 

Because I murmured at Thy will, 

And longed for Egypt's vanished joys, 

And wept the heathen's food, which still 
Even of its v^ery sweetness cloys. 

But Thou hadst mercy and forbore 
Thine angered spirit chastens sore, 
Yet not destroys. 

The path I tread is long and drear, 
Aimless its wanderings seem to me, 

And oft in doubting mood I fear 

The Promised Land I ne'er shall see. 

But even though I faint and fall 
Within the path, I know in all 
Thou leadest me. 

And for the food in Egypt left, 

Thou giv'st the manna of Thy word ; 

To quench my thirst the rocks are cleft, 
And living springs within them stirred. 

Mine idolsThou wilt put away, 

And teach my stubborn soul to pray 
" Thy will, O Lord !" 

And sometimes as a cloud of grief 

Upon my way Thou guidest me, 
And often for a season brief 



The Wandering in the Wilderness 1 19 

As living fire Thy might I see; 
But whether cloud or fire doth go 
Before my path, in each I know 
Thou leadest me. 



THE HOLY COMMUNION 

Who is the blessed guest 
Here present at the feast? 

Is it not Christ the Lord, 
Who comes, with silent tread, 
To join the table spread 

According to His word? 

He blest the bread and brake, 
Saying: " Take, eat for my sake.' 

He poured the ruddy wine: 
For love of me this do. 
My Father gives to you 

Share of the life divine !" 

And other guests are here, 
All that we held most dear; 

The loved and early lost 
Gather with us to-day, 
To kneel and feast and pray, — 

A shadowy, silent host. 
(120) 



The Holy Communion 12 1 

With them and Thee at o?ie 
Make us, as we commune, 

Father of Life and Love! 
Fashion us to Thy will; 
Cast from our hearts all ill; 

Turn every thought above. 

O Thou, who knowest our need, 
Our hungry spirits feed 

With Thine own bread of life." 
Into our souls like wine 
Pour Thou the strength divine 

To aid us in the strife ! 



THE THREE-FOLD TESTIMONY 

^God is Love. '—St. John. 
God is the Summit of Truth.— Emerson. 
God is the Best that Man can ^ww.-Mattiiew Arnold. 

Still " from faith to faith" uplifted, 
Living out his sense of right, 

Man moves Godward through the ages; 
Climbing slow from height to height. 

"Father, Son and Holy Spirit"— 
So the earlier souls confess: 
We, their latest heirs, inherit 

Love and Truth and Righteousness. 

Christlike Love — the Eternal Human, 
Shall walk with us through all time; 

Righteousness — the Eternal Helpful, 
Lifts us toward Truth sublime. 

Something grander than our finite, 
Something higher than our best; 

All enfolding, all upholding, 
To the soul made manifest. 

This is God, the great Eternal, 
Be he what he may, or where, 

In His being He uniteth 

Wisdom, Love and Helpful Care. 
(122) 



AFTER LONG WAITING 

" Wait? Wait? — Dear God, how can I wait! 
When I would fain arise and go 
Forth to thy fields to till and sow, 

Early and late?" 
And still He bade me : " Wait." 

" Rest ? — But I pant for action ! Rest ?— 
Nay, rest I can not. Let me strive ! 
Rest 's for the dead ; I am alive, 

And toil is best." 
Yet my Lord answered : " Rest." 

I waited ; chafing hour by hour 
At enforced idlesse, wasted strength. 
Lo, now He bids me work, at length, 

With all my power, 
In this the eleventh hour. 

And now my tired eyes clearer see 
How all my zeal had been misplaced ; 
Toil had been fruitless; haste been waste. 

Be patient: — He, 
From all beginning, the end doth see. 

(123) 



THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH 

"The Spirit of Trttth, zohich we * hold forth to be the saving rule 
of life, and jrom which the Serif hires proceeded, is the greatest of 
a//."— William Williams, His Journal, 1810. 

Rite, temple, priest, psalm, Word, 

Not these the spirit needs: 
The " still small voice " is heard 

Above the clash of creeds. 

That voice unto each heart 

In gentlest tones will speak, 
If it but draw apart, 

From all, in reverence meek. 

Law, temple, priest and rite — 
For these we thank Thee, Lord, 

For the uplifting might 

Within Thy written Word. 

But, Lord, we thank Thee most 

For this small voice within! 
This is Thine Holy Ghost, 

Our safeguard against sin. 

* The Society of Friends, more coini.ionly known as Quakers. 

("4) 



The Spirit cf Truth 125 

This is Thy living Word, 

Which speaks to every age: 
By earnest seekers heard, 

Or peasant, priest, or sage. 

Thy temple is mine heart — 
" Thy kingdom is within:" 
Thy priest, myself; thy rite, 
Each conquest over sin. 

Temple, priest, Word, law, rite, 

Hath not each true soul then. 
That striveth for the Light? 

Yea, Lord, — Be praised ! Amen. 



MAGDALEN 

M We commit to the ground the body oj this our deceased sister."— 
Burial Service. 

" This our sister." Turn the earthclods under, 
Heap them high above the quiet breast; 
Ceasing longer now to fear or wonder, 
This, our sister, is at last at rest. 

" This, our sister!" Surely you are mocking. 
Why, this self-same form I've seen before, 
Through the streets of yonder city walking, 
Pitilessly spurned from door to door. 

Driven swiftly to a sure perdition, 

Scouted, scorned and mocked with bitter jeers: 
Finding never place for her contrition, 

Though she sought it eagerly with tears. 

Never gentle hand outstretched for saving, 
Never voice to give in tender tone 

Aught of sympathy her heart was craving — 
Till hhe perished, outcast and alone. 

Surely, surely, had this been " our sister," 
We had hearkened to her frenzied prayer; 

Not unmoved our hearts had been to list her 
Contrite moaning and her wild despair. 
(126) 



Magdalen 12 J 

Had she been our sister — tempted, sinning — 
We had hastened to uplift and save, [ning 

Had deemed time and pains well spent in win- 
Back our sister from a living grave. 

One there was who felt no shame in owning, 

Publicans and sinners for his kin; 
Who withheld the rabble rout from stoning 

Such another, taken in her sin. 

" This our sister? " Ay, she was our sister! 

Covered though she be with sin's dark blight. 
And our hands — too dainty to assist her — 

Are they guiltless in the Master's sight? 

Cain's wild cry, "Am I my brother's keeper? " 
Think you it availed him much with God ? 

Friends, than Cain have we erred less or deeper, 
Towards the one who sleeps beneath this sod ? 



TIRED 

For only a little time if I might lay d®wn my 

life, 
Resting here in the silence, out of the heat and 

strife! 
Let me crouch down here in the shadow, while 

the noisy fray sweeps by — 
I am weary; so weary, comrades, if I rest not 

now, I die. 
What was our slogan? " Action is ever the soul's 

true rest ! *' 
Action ! — You'll witness, brothers, how long I 

strove with the best. 
From day dawn till dewy even with tireless 

hand I wrought. 
Woe, woe, that this final failure should make 

that record naught ! " 

Friends, when the Master cometh (as come he 

surely must,) 
When he finds me heavily sleeping and my good 

sword dimmed with rust, 
While you on your reeking sabres lean near, all 

flushed and warm; 
When he looks on your glowing faces, then 

down to my nerveless form — 
(128) 



Tired 



129 



O, tell him that never with terror or pain my 

face once paled, 
It was not the will that faltered, it was only the 

strength that failed ; 
That I'd fain have watched till his coming, even 

as he did command: — 
And somehow I think that the Master will surely 

understand ! 

What were his words ? " Ye weary and heavy 
laden, come!" 

Were they meant for me too, I wonder? Al- 
ready my hands are numb, 

And my eyelids heavily drooping. Is this the 
slumber blest 

He gives to his beloved ? Is this the promised 
rest? 

O, ye who strive ! your guerdon I pray you may 
surely reap, — 

For you is the golden harvest; for me is the 
dreamless sleep. 

Strive on, O strong and fearless! unheeding that 

I fall- 
But say to the Master, I fain would have ans- 
wered to his call. 

1S74 



DAILY BREAD 

" Give us this day our daily bread.'''' 

What is this bread 
Wherewith we're daily fed ? 
One time in thoughtful mood I questioning 
said. 

Is't wheaten loaves? 

Or bread fruit from the groves ? 

Or crust unleavened such as Jewry loves? 

Were such the feast, 

How better than the beast 

In yonder field, were man's life in the least? 

" By bread alone 
Man shall not live," said One 
Unto the tempter in rebuking tone. 

" By earthly bread 
Alone, man is not fed; 

But by each word that comes from the God- 
head." 

Each word ? — Each thought 
Which hitherto hath brought 
The soul more near the virtue which it sought ; 
(130) 



Daily Bread 131 

Each earnest hope 
Which gives to Faith new scope, 
Each gleam that lights this darkness where we 
grope; 

And each desire 

Which lifts the mortal higher 

Toward that immortal whereto we aspire: — 

This is that bread 

Wherewith our souls are fed, 

Without which man, indeed, in sin were dead. 

Then day by day, 

Give me, dear Lord, I pray 

That bread which shall my fasting spirit stay! 



TOLD IN A PARABLE 

Who hath not eyes to see nor ears to hear — 
Eyes whose insight by sorroxv is made clear, 
And ears made keen by breathless listening 
For the slow steps of messengers that bring 
The answer unto prayers, — who hath not these, 

Willjind no line within this tale to please ' 
Let him look farther : only unto those 

Who hear and see, its meaning will unclose. 

One had a closet in a secret nook, 
And none, save him alone, therein might look. 
The many wondered oft and whispered low: 
" Thither in dead of night the man doth go! 
Does he not keep some treasure hidden there — 
Gold, it may be, or jewels rich and rare ? " 

But he, when he would hear, smiled bitterly, 
And closed his hand the firmer on the key 
Which hung upon his breast, and patient kept 
Vigil until the world about him slept; 
Then went his way, and stood, with anguished face, 
Gazing into the darkness of the place. 

No treasure there ! The gloom was tenanted 
By a gaunt skeleton, grewsome and dread, — 
(>32> 



Told in a Parable 133 

A great crime or a sorrow? or the ghost 
Of a fond hope? some grand ideal lost? 
I do not know (the story's not mine own); 
And only God and that poor man alone 
Knew its full history. 

With sob and groan 
He bowed before it, grovelling in the dust, 
And bore its bitter taunts as one who must; 
Answering not again the while with jeers 
And cruel laugh it mocked his falling tears, 
And gloated o'er his misery. 

At length 
The very depth of his despair gave strength 
Unto his soul to battle with his woe; 
Till he could say : " I will arise and go 
Forth from these shadows to the sunlit earth, 
And drown my sorrow in her sounds of mirth." 

With that the awful shape pealed laughter worse, 
In its weird glee, than had been any curse. 
"Yea, go! " it said, " But ever at your side, 
Through each new scene of pleasure I will glide, 
Turning its bliss to bale, its song to shriek." 

He answered " Be it so. Then will I seek 



134 Told in a Parable 

The company of mourners. It may be 
This much of solace may be granted me, — 
To lighten grief of others; to atone 
With painful care for evil not my own." 

" Go! go! " it cried, " But think not to escape. 
You must bear ever with you in some shape 
The memory of your past." " That memory," 
He said, " perchance shall teach mine eye to see 
Some woe another's might have missed!" 

And so 
He went his way. All mourners, high and low, 
He sought ; and strove to comfort and to heal 
All wounds his own grief taught his heart to feel. 

And ever as he worked, he was aware 
Of a strong presence at his side whene'er 
A deed of kindly charity he wrought, — 
A presence with an angel's features fraught 
With tender sympathy; whose words of cheer 
Strengthened his soul to put aside his fear, 
And seek in patient work for Mercy's sake 
A little to forget the bitter ache 
He bore within his heart. 

No woe, no pain 
That he could ease, to him appealed in vain. 



Told in a Parable 135 

Through scenes of misery and vice and want, 
The " outer darkness " of the outcast's haunt, 
Wherever deed of wrong could be redressed, 
Cheering the faint, uplifting the oppressed, 
With pitying face and helpful hand he passed. 

Thus reaching out to all his race, at last 

His own tried spirit came in time to be 

Touched with all feelings of humanity; 

Weeping with those who wept, he came to know 

The joy of those who do rejoice also; 

Lifted above his old sore pain and grief, 

He found a solace in the same relief 

He tendered others; and the wild unrest 

Which drove him forth, departed from his breast. 

And so long years went by in loving deeds 
And patient 'tendance on the sufferers' needs, 
Until at length he came, with bated breath, 
Again to gaze into that house of death. 
And lo! There stood an angel in the place 
Of the gaunt terror he had left. The face 
Of the bless'd presence was the face he knew 
So long as his dear guide's! 

And straight, unto 
Him wondering, a voice began to speak 



136 Told in a Parable 

In well known accents: " I am that ye seek, — 
The same, yet not the same. Nor think it strange, 
Naught is immutable since Time and Change 
Work as they have worked ever. Had you stayed, 
Cowering in secret, trembling and afraid, 
I still had been your tyrant. But since well 
You wrought for Truth's sake and for Love's, the 

spell 
Which changed your darkened soul changed also 

me, 
Tiil I became the shining one you see, 
Strong to assist and cheer as once to ban." 

Then hand in hand the presence and the man 
Passed on, and glad content filled all his days. 

I think GooVs mercy Jindeth many ways 
To comfort us when least we would expect / 
And even the rocks ivhereon our hopes are wrecked, 
When we look back across the years, shall stand 
Like hallowed altars reared by angePs hand. 

Tor life tends on and upward. By mistakes 
We learn. The hand which crushed our idols 

takes 
Our own, and leads ?is to ?iew shrines/ whose 

light 



Told in a Parable 137 

Shines but the brighter for past errors night. 

All sin and sorrow, shame, disgrace and pain, 

Are made His ministers. From loss comes gain. 

Out of all ill it must be He will make 

Some good to come, for His dear Mercy 1 s sake; 

That we may find a?i angel in the place 

Of the gaunt skeleton with grisly face. 



GOD KNOWS 

God knows, not I, the devious way 
Wherein my faltering feet must tread 

Before, into the light of day, 

My steps from out this gloom are led. 

And since my Lord the path doth see 

What matter if 'tis hid from me? 

God knows, not I, how sweet accord 

Shall grow at length from out this crash 

Of earthly discords which have jarred 
On soul and sense. I hear the clash — 

Yet feel and know that on His ear 

Breaks Harmony — full, deep, and clear. 

God knows, not I, why, when I'd fain 
Have walked in pastures green and fair, 

The path appointed me hath lain 

Through rocky deserts bleak and (bare. 

I blindly trust — since 'tis His will — 

This way lies safety; that way, ill. 

He knows, too, why, despite my will 

I'm weak when I should be most strong, 
And, after earnest wrestling, still 
(138) 



God Knoivs 139 

I see the right, yet do the wrong. 
Is't that He'd have me learn at length 
Not mine, but His — the saving strength? 

His perfect plan I may not grasp, 

But I can trust Love Infinite, 
And with my feeble fingers clasp 

The Hand which leads me to the Light: 
My soul upon His errand goes — 
The end I know not. But God knows. 



A SONG OF REST 

Beati, bcati, mortm. 

Nay — no sorrow. 

We but sleep, to wake to-morrow; 

Go your way, 

Leave me in my house of clay. 

Let me rest, with sunlight sifting 

Through the boughs, and red leaves drifting 

On the grass. No fear that I 

Shall be lonesome where I lie. 

Work is done, 

And my rest is but begun. 

Calm and still 

In my house upon the hill 

I have time to lie at ease, 

To hold converse with the trees, 

And the marvellous sky, and all 

Nature's wonders great and small. 

The procession of the year 
In review shall pass me here; 
Winter's miracle of the snow, 
Spring's display of bud and blow, 
Summer's wealth of roses, all 
Of Autumn's grand High Carnival. 
(140) 



A Song- of Rest 141 



I shall hear the acorn falline, 
I shall hear the wild duck calling 
To his mate on yonder lake. 
I shall see the mornings break — 
See the cool diaphanous mist 
Turn from grey to amethyst, 
Watch the gathering twilight, 
Learn the mystery of the night, 
And the eternal stars shall see, 
One by one, shine over me. 

In this bed that holds but one 
It is good to lie alone 
For a little while, apart 
From all stir of brain or heart; 
Resting, waiting, learning still 
How the Master works His will. 

Yet so sure as I lie here 
Without pain and without fear 
Under the eternal skies, 
Yea, so surely I shall rise, 
When the time is come, and go 
On God's errands to and fro. 

" All our times are in God's hand." 
All — not one, you understand. 



14 2 So??g of Rest 

Death no stranger is than birth, 
And life does not end with earth ; 
Other paths the soul must tread, 
All is not over for the dead. 
Dead? — There is no Death; — the rest 
In the music, just the pause 
Which is one of Music's laws, 
Is this time of quiet bless'd. 

Go your way. 

Leave me in my house of clay; 

Vex me not with idle sorrow: 

Death's of to-day hut Life is of the Morrow. 



HAR VEST HOME 

If the echo of my singing 
Has been, yet, the means of bringing 
Aught of joy to any spirit 

Overshadowed, faint with fear; 
If when any heart was breaking 
It has somewhat stilled the aching, 
Till the voice of God's evangel 

Through the silence might draw near; 

If in any night of sorrow 

It has whispered of a morrow 

When the sun should shine out clearly, 
All the clouds of grief be gone: 
Not in vain bc7ieath the sun 
Is the task my hand has done, 
To one talent which He gave me 
There is added other one. 

So, when through the evening 's quiet 
Comes to me the solemn fat : 
" Work is e?zded. — To the Master 

Bring the sheaves which thou hast bound! 
When the aw ef lied voice I hear, 
I shall rise up without fear, — 

Not, as once I thought to, trembling 
And heart-quaking at the sound. 
(i43) 



i^4 Harvest Home 

I shall rise and bear along 
In my hand my sheaves of song, 
And go humbly till I kneel me 
In the -presence of his face, 
And, with downcast eyelids, say; — 
u Master, in thy sight this day 
Let the offering (I fray thee!) 
That I bring to thee, find grace! 

" Little are my harvest gains, 
Not for me the crowded wains 

Heaped with golden grain : these few sheaves, 
Lord, are all I have to show, 
For my tilling of thy soil, 
For my years of tears and toil; 
Tea, these only can I give thee 
For the seed thou didst bestow. 

" But since faithfully I wrought, 
Toiling ever, resting not ; 

fudge not by the harvest's scantness 
Of the fervor of my zeal: 
And I pray thee (I shall say) 
That my humble offeri?ig may 
Still find favor with thee!" [Hushed then 
I shall listen where I kneel.) 



Harvest Home 145 

And it haply then may chance 
That the Lord will bend a glance 
On my heart, and read it truly, 
And say : " She hath done her best. 
And is not its best the whole 
i have asked of any soul ? 

Rise, O spirit. Leave thy sheaves, then, 
Enter thou into My Rest" 



